


Citrus With A Hint of Tea

by Nehszriah



Series: unnamed satsouffle au [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: F/M, fucking stunned!Malcolm, saucy!Clara, the luckiest mobile in the multiverse, this still makes me laugh almost a year later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 07:59:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5156207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nehszriah/pseuds/Nehszriah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rule at Coal Hill is that mobile phones are permitted, but cursing into them is not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Citrus With A Hint of Tea

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this almost a year ago now, which was my first foray into crossover fic. All my DW/TTOI fics depended on this one being written, because I swore to myself for YEARS that I wouldn't write crossover fic, but this was the one that broke me.
> 
> Takes place in an AU where DW and TTOI take place in the same universe, with the latter occurring fifteen years after it was originally set.

Coal Hill Secondary School was in chaos.

There was a lecture going on in the gymnasium for the Year Elevens, some nameless, faceless, junior minister of something or other was launching a thing… no one was really sure as to what _sort_ of thing… and that made the school in even more disarray as the classes changed. There were mysterious men from the government lurking and skulking and making the kids skittish. Could they tell their music players were filled with illegally-downloaded music? Even worse: could they _do_ anything about it? No… they were in a good school, filled with good kids, so there wasn't like there was any crossfire for them to get caught between, right?

Wrong. Dead, positively, absolutely, one-hundred-percent wrong.

He was cursing up a storm, the government bloke. Yelling into a Blackberry, he paced furiously in the courtyard, dropping all sorts of words and terms that frankly scared the students. Well… _scared_ might've been too strong a word. _Surprised_ , possibly. Impressed, definitely; a few even recorded the rant to take notes. No one really wanted to go over and ask the man to settle down or clean up his language, not even the teachers that caught wind of this whirlwind of a cusspot… all except one, and she was the very one that was _least_ of all expected to do anything.

The last couple of years, Miss Oswald had seemed to be in half a daze at best. She still came in almost every day and was one of the more brilliant instructors, but perceptive students and staff alike could see she was wearing a mask. No one purposely crossed her or pushed her towards anything that could be considered an unpleasant emotion, which made some Year Sevens and Eights absolutely terrified when their sweet and aunt-like teacher stormed into the courtyard and _tore_ the Blackberry out of the shouting man's grasp.

"He will call you back," she hissed into the mobile before hanging up. She crossed her arms and shifted her weight on her hips while glaring at the man nearly two heads taller and not quite twice her age. The man's eyes went wide and his eyebrows both arched and furrowed as he sized up Miss Oswald.

"…well, colour me fucking _stunned_ ," he said. "Give me my mobile please, sweetheart. I've got work to do."

"Not with that language and not here," Miss Oswald snapped. She held the Blackberry between her thumb and forefinger, whisking it away as the man grabbed for it. "Rules are rules: mobiles are allowed between classes for emergencies, but any foul language and they're taken away for the rest of the day."

"I'm not a student," the man grumbled. If one looked closely, steam could be seen coming out of his ears. "Give me my fucking mobile back."

Miss Oswald only stood there, shifting her weight to the other side of her hips. She was toying with him.

"Do you realize who I had on the other fucking end of that call?" he growled. The man leaned down and narrowed his eyes as he stared directly into hers. "I had the Minister of Transport on that. Do you realize that if I'm not breathing down their fucking sweaty necks every two minutes, your tax money doesn't actually get used properly? They may be cunts, but they're important cunts with access to lots of money that they're not sure what to do with except for maybe wipe their bloody arses after a satisfying shit."

"Well then, leave your _delicate_ work for elsewhere; this is a school, Mister…?"

The man hesitated. "Tucker."

"Mister _Tucker_. I don't care how often you need to have a shout, even if your life depends on it. This is a school, where I have a difficult enough time teaching without hearing your morbid peptalks filtering in through the corridor. You can collect this later, on your way out the door."

"You can't…!" Mister Tucker began, his voice beginning to boom and his hand reaching forward. Miss Oswald held out her arm and took a step back, matching his glare in both solidity and intensity. When he made a grab for the mobile, she did the unthinkable and stuffed the device down her shirt, into her bra.

"On your way out the door—I will see you _then_ , Mister Tucker." With that she turned on her heel and left for her classroom, leaving the government bloke in speechless shock. He stared as she vanished into the main of the building and kicked one of the oversized chess pieces in frustration.

Miss Oswald was _not_ one to be trifled with.

* * *

Later that day, Clara Oswald sat in her empty classroom, catching up on some marking. They were exams that she had put off going through the night before, instead choosing to head on over to the shop and buy herself some fresh tea to have as she soaked in the bath. She had needed the treat—it was edging ever closer to _that_ day, the last day she ever saw them—and there was no regret as she quickly scanned through the papers before her.

A quiet knock at her open door was the only thing to disrupt her. "Come in," she said.

The door did not creak further open and no footsteps made their way in. She looked over her shoulder and saw the man from earlier… what was his name? Mister Tucker? Might as well have been Mister Fucker with the way his mouth was running. He looked cross, vexed, and—surprisingly—cowed.

"I'd like my mobile back, please," he muttered from his spot. Clara put the marking pen down and leaned back in her chair, puffing out her chest on-purpose as to tighten her blouse and show the man his phone was exactly where he had last seen it.

"Apologize," she said. Mister Tucker stared at her, indecision slapped all over his face. Clara groaned and began to swivel in her chair. "In or out; I haven't got all day." He came in and softly closed the door behind him.

"I wouldn't have done that had I known I was going to be in for a bollocking," he said, holding out his hand with the palm up. Clara looked at his long fingers, blinking as he snapped them once. "If you don't mind, I need to get going."

"If you don't mind, I would like a _proper_ apology, Mister Tucker," she replied. She fastened her blouse up one button more, trapping the mobile phone even more securely than before.

The man sighed, chewing his bottom lip in frustration. His ire was not directed at her, Clara could tell, but was elsewhere. He exhaled heavily in reluctant defeat. "I'm sorry," he muttered under his breath, "and it's Malcolm."

"Excuse me?"

"My name is Malcolm and I'm sorry. Can I have my mobile back now?"

Clara remained seated as she stared upwards at the man before her. ' _Malcolm, hmm?_ ' she thought, watching his eyes as they bored into hers. His eyes were icy blue, wavered little, and looked nearly haunting against his brown hair. ' _Two steps from grey with the way those neck veins were popping_.' His neck decidedly looked much better now, without blood ready to erupt from it. She picked up her marking pen and chewed on the cap.

"…and do you promise to watch your language while you're in my place of work, Malcolm?"

"Yes," he agreed quietly.

"Apology accepted," she said. Malcolm stood there, hand still extended, waiting for her to take the phone out of her shirt. Instead she sat there, the only motion being the chewing of her pen.

"…well?" he asked. "Can I have my mobile back or not?"

"Take it," Clara smiled. She took the pen from her lips and idly tapped it on the desktop, waiting for him to make a move. His eyebrows arched and his mouth opened ever-so-slightly as he realized what she just told him to do.

After a quick glance over his shoulder and around the room, Malcolm edged closer to Clara. His face twitched nervously as he slowly moved his hand towards her blouse. He carefully undid the button and left his hand to hover above her breast, waiting for her to jerk away or scream. When she did not, he glued his eyes to her brown ones and dipped his fingers underneath the fabric. He felt lace and skin before he felt plastic and very quickly pulled the Blackberry out before his face could grow any redder.

"You missed two calls, by the way," Clara said as she turned back towards her marking, acting as though she had just handed him the mobile outright from her desk drawer. "Thank you for keeping it on silent; it would have disrupted the class otherwise."

"Um… don't mention it… Miss…?"

"Miss Oswald. Clara Oswald."

Malcolm paused for a moment, taking in the woman before him. She was tiny and decidedly steadfast in her resolve. His heart skipped a beat—this was someone who _knew_ what she was doing, not because she had a camera hidden or a witness spying, but because she craved seeing the wide-eyed expression that people wore when they were being lambasted from here to Cornwall and back.

She craved the same expression he did when he glowered around Whitehall and the annex offices… the same one he was still wearing as he stood there, impressed.

Suddenly, the mobile in Malcolm's hand buzzed silently, alerting him to a call. He turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, intent on being as far away from Miss Clara Oswald as possible before answering. Halfway down the corridor he picked up, almost slamming the device to his ear.

"Yeah?" he barked. His mind went blank as he felt the Blackberry against his face, still warm from its hour-long getaway. "Hold on a sec…" He took the mobile from his ear and looked at it. After a tentative sniff of the earpiece—citrus with a hint of, what was that—he put the receiver back and hissed derisively.

"You're gonna have to repeat that—fucking building's made to withstand the goddamned Russians and you broke up there." It was a good thing the man on the other end couldn't see the shade of scarlet his face was taking on, nor the way he kept his eyes downcast and out of focus.

Malcolm made a mental note as he walked out the front door. Coal Hill… a hint of tea… good place for project launches, no matter how dumb the fuck was doing the launch.


End file.
